


274 - Mother's Day

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Dad Van, F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 12:11:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14544459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt of dad Van celebrating Mother’s Day with his wife and children.





	274 - Mother's Day

Van McCann knew what his future would look like from the get-go. He had it all planned out and had no reason to think it wouldn’t fall into place just like that. Van’s parents laughed at his certainty, knowing too well how hard the curveballs life could throw were.

Curveball one for Van was you. Just nineteen, he didn’t really anticipate meeting his soulmate until a little later. He’d grown up in a small town with small people and always figured the girl of his dreams would only be found out there in the big wide world. But, you weren’t. You were right there and you were so perfect. He was in love before he knew your name. You were in love as soon as he smiled his lopsided grin. Curveball two, a direct consequence of one, was born twelve months later.

Micah came kicking and screaming into the world. Regardless of how much you loved Van and wanted him home, and how much you knew Micah did too, you didn’t let the fast-forwarded plans of babies change his musical stardom dreams. He toured and he toured and he toured and he toured. When he was home he was just as perfect of a father as he promised he’d be. And that’s how the three of you lived for five years.

Curveball the third was named Mary and it tore Van apart to have to go back out on the road. Two albums in, Catfish had momentum and the hype surrounding them was generating significant income. It was stupid to give it up. You both knew it. It was stupid to not be there to see his baby girls grow up though. He felt that in the bottom of his heart and deep in his gut. So, just like that, he gave it up.

The guys came around, all assuming they were to listen to Van’s album three skeleton. He was off though. Bob noticed first, always the most empathetic of the group. Benji and Larry had known him the longest. Before the first cigarette was smoked down to a butt, they’d both noticed Van’s nervous habits too. Bondy wouldn’t have figured it out if it hadn’t been for your quietness. You’d kind of adopted Bond as your other-significant-other. He knew you too well.

“We’re not makin’ another album, are we, mate?” Bondy asked as he took Mary from your arms to hold her close. It was anyone’s guess who was being comforted more.

Everybody watched Van. They waited for a reaction. Micah was six, almost seven. She giggled in Larry’s arms at the silent room.

“I can’t leave them again,” Van answered on a breath out. His voice was shaky and you could hear how close to crying he was. “I… I don’t know what to do. I know… I said… I just… I just can’t leave them.”

Benji stood and walked to Van. He put his hands on his shoulders and shook Van gently. “Of all the things you’ve wanted to be, a singer, a songwriter, a good son, best mate, number one Fifa player, all of that… The thing you’ve always wanted to be most is the best dad in the world. Always. And you have never loved anything more than Y/N. We all knew that the day we met her. You don’t have to stand here and, I don’t know, explain yourself or whatever. Of course you don’t have to leave them again. You’ve given us more than enough, Van.”

Nobody wanted to say it, but it came as a relief to the guys in a lot of ways. It wasn’t like they were ungrateful. It was more that they’d been so young when Catfish started. They’d never had a chance to try anything else. And as the night went on, all their future plans were brought to light and in that light were brought to life. Bob wanted to work with Joe and his drum company. Bondy wanted to start another band. Or two. Or three. One for each genre of music he’d never been able to play much before. Benji wanted to freefall. He wanted more time with his girlfriend and his animals. Larry was the only one you were worried about.

“What about you?” you asked him. You were sat on a couch together, Mary asleep in his arms and your head resting on his shoulder. The others were scattered; some outside smoking, some inside entertaining Micah. She knew it was beyond her bedtime so she was carefully avoiding you.

“I’ll be alright, Y/N. I can roadie for other bands, you know. Not just Van’s personal assistant,”

“I know that. And that’s not what I meant. I mean, like… you’ve spent literally most of your life with Van. Almost every day. Gonna be different without him,” you said gently.

“Yeah, but that’s alright. We both gotta be… I don’t fuckin’ know… separate people or whatever. ‘Sides, don’t think you’ll get rid of me that easy, love. In addition to my excellent roadie skills, I also make a class babysitter.”

Larry did, in fact, make a brilliant babysitter. When he wasn’t working with bands on tour, he was at your place catching up with Micah and Mary. He taught them to call him The Godfather because a) he was their godfather, and b) he thought it sounded cool. “Yeah, don’t know how impressive it is to have a baby and a kid call you that, mate,” Van laughed when he heard.

Catching up with Larry and the guys was made easier when Van moved you all to London after a whole year off post-officially putting Catfish on hiatus. People had bets on how long it would take for him to crawl out of his skin, look for something to do. Van was a busy bee by nature and the longest bet was a short four months. You, Van’s parents and the band knew better. He’d never seek distraction and action from you and the girls. The twelve months proved that.

He took to being a stay-at-home dad like a duck to water. He was made for chaotic breakfasts and walks around the block and bedtime routines of stories and lavender baths. He quickly caught up on everything he missed. Micah had always loved him, but having him around constantly made her fall deeper. Every time Van spoke to her she would stare up at him with emoji heart eyes. It was beautiful to watch.

A year of it, though, and you both mutually decided that you were setting yourselves up for heartache. At least one of you had to work at some point, and the longer that was put off the more it would hurt. “I’ve actually been thinkin’ about it,” Van said one night. The girls had fallen asleep early after a day at the park. You’d tucked Micah into bed, letting Little Mary sleep at the foot of her bed.

“Why’s the baby named the dog’s name?” she’d asked when you’d brought Mary home from the hospital.

“Just wait till she figures out mum’s name,” Van laughed.

The little but human Mary was put carefully in her crib. She was growing fast, already bigger than Micah was at her age. Van took that as an indicator that his presence was indeed a nurturing thing. You did not disagree.

“And what were you thinking?” you replied, turning on your side to face Van.

“You remember Elijah? My mate from Manchester? He moved here too and we were talkin’ about stuff,”

“You’re talking all vague, Van. Like you’re trying to tell me something you think I’m not gonna like. Like that time you had to tell me Kesha did a song with Macklemore,” you said, looking at him suspiciously.

Van laughed and nodded. “God, I knew you’d be so pissed about that. You really hate that guy. But no. I ain’t got bad news. I’m just… I don’t know what you’re gonna think, that’s all,”

“Right, so just spit it out,”

“Just spit it out…” Van repeated. Mimicking was one of Van’s many strange speech patterns. “Me and 'Lij are gonna start a record label. Or studio. Or whatever. 'Cause we both got the connections and credibility. That’s most of the battle. He’s got a bit of capital saved. We’ve got some money saved too-”

“You mean the girls’ college accounts?”

“Yeah, but! But, we would pay it all back to 'em. With interest. We already got a whole lineup of bands that we’re looking at. We can really do this thing, Y/N. I won’t fuck it up. I promise.” He sounded desperate and maybe a bit scared.

“Okay,” you said.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. I trust you, Van. I trust you with me, with the girls, and with the money and stuff. Never given me a reason not to, you know? So… yeah. If you think this will work, then do it. I can help. Whatever,” you said casually. You meant every word.

Van sat up in bed and looked at you. You looked back, smiling at his slight disbelief. Did he really think you were going to say no? To reassure him more, you sat up and pushed yourself against him, nuzzling into him. His arms wrapped around you and he pulled you in tight.

“I love you,” Van said.

“I love you too. You’ve got the golden touch. Everything turns out good,”

“God, I’m terrified that’ll stop. I can’t be this lucky, right? You’re fucking perfect. Michs and Mary are perfect. The band worked. My dog knows how to play fetch. What if this is it, Y/N? What if my luck runs out?”

You held Van’s face in your hands and gently kissed his nose. His forehead. He closed his eyes and let you touch him softly. Feed his need.

“It won’t. It’s not luck, Van. It’s never been luck. It’s been hard work. Graftin’, right? You’ll work hard and that’s why this will be great.”

All night Van held you close. His fingers pressed into your skin so hard that you wouldn’t be surprised to see bruises. It didn’t hurt though. And whenever he moved to let you go or loosen his grip, you’d wriggle and squirm and whine until he was squeezing you into him again. The sleep was consolidating, the ending of a chapter and a promise of one new. The sex was a conversation. It was 'I love you’ and 'you don’t need to thank me’ and 'we are better together’ and maybe a little bit of 'hush, you’ll wake up the girls.’

…

Van McCann knew what his future looked like from the get-go. Life had thrown him curveballs, but they had turned out to be part of the plan all along. Van was nineteen when he met you and fell in love. He was twenty when Micah was born. By twenty-two, his band had a critically acclaimed debut album. Steve Lamacq loved it. One of the tracks made it onto Fifa. It was all fucking happening. A few years later, when Van was twenty-four, his band won a Brit Award in the same year that their second album did even better than its predecessor. A track made it onto Fifa again, which was obviously the most important thing. The following year Van would turn twenty-five and your second daughter, Mary, would be born. The band would wait. It all would. An entire year proved the world would wait. Van was twenty-six when he moved you all to London and built a recording studio.

Having less to do with fate or destiny and more to do with characteristic tenacity and fight, the studio was glorious. Van and Elijah made a good team. Elijah was business savvy and Van had faith for days. By the time Van turned twenty-seven in August, he’d figured out the whole work/life balance thing. Life was perfect and time rolled on.

When your eyes adjusted to the brightness of the room, you could focus on all of the out of place things. Your bedroom window usually had the blinds drawn. Why were they open? The sounds of the city flooded in through the open space. A warm breeze followed. It made the balloons sway. The balloons… There were so many of them. Different shades of pastel pink, purple, and blue. The helium lifted them high and they floated along the ceiling with a life of their own. You sat up and shook the last clouds of sleepy hazy from your mind. Right. Mother’s Day.

A small giggle at the open bedroom door caught your attention. Mary was leaning against the doorframe, watching you.

“Mornin’, baby,” you said to her, voice croaky from lack of use. You realised then that she wasn’t randomly standing at the door. She’d been assigned a very important job. Without so much as a 'good morning, mummy,’ she was running off, yelling to Micah and Van.

“She wake!” was announced multiple times before she was hushed by her sister. You could hear Micah’s perfect, bossy voice. 

Not wanting to spoil anything planned, because you knew there was definitely something planned, you stayed in bed and simply waited. For a couple of minutes, there was only whispers and small clinks of mugs and plates and cutlery. Then, Van’s voice as quiet as can be counting out, “One. Two. Three.” They all came busting through the door, yelling in attempted-unison, “HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!" 

Van was carrying two trays loaded with food. He was wearing dark grey track pants that sat slightly lower than his black underwear. Like he always did when at home, he opted to be barefoot and without a shirt. Even then, a few months away from turning twenty-eight, he was still way too proud of his patch of chest hair.

Micah was carrying a tray too, but hers was the tea set. You could imagine the fight that would have happened to allow that. Van would have been worried. It might be too heavy and the water too hot. Micah, defiant and strong, would have not settled on doing anything less than her fair share. She’d carry the tea and that would be that.

Mary was too little to carry anything, so she led the parade and offered bonus greetings of, "Happy! Happy! Happy! Mummy!” She climbed onto the bed and took a prime position next to you.

“Want me to take that?” you asked Micah as she approached the bed.

“No,” she said, annoyed. You watched nervously as she slowly put the tray on the bed and slid it across to you. She watched her baby sister’s erratic movement, accounting for it.

“Well done, baby. Come 'ere,” you said, pulling her up into your lap.

Van put the trays of breakfast down on the end of the bed, then climbed up too, careful not to misplace his weight and send the tea flying. You looked up at him and grinned.

“Tea, Mummy,” Micah said and leant forward to help. She put the right amount of sugar in each cup but let you pour the tea. She added milk to all four cups and she knew that Mary’s 'tea’ was mostly just milk.

Breakfast in bed consisted of a huge stack of pancakes, obviously designed to be shared. Each was cut into four pieces and the fork was passed around. Micah chewed a piece until it was a fine paste, then opened her mouth wide. Van poured syrup straight from the bottle and you watched in dismay as the process was deemed a roaring success.

“She’s never gonna use cutlery again,” you said.

Just in case the many, many pancakes did not satisfy, your family had put a pile of biscuits on one of the trays. They weren’t in a packet or on a plate, just dumped on a tray in a fashion that suggested something about childish excess. When Micah started to eat her way through the pile, you felt sure she had just decided to add them as a finishing touch.

“You remember when we was in Australia and they taught us the Tim Tam Slam?” Van asked, picking up a chocolate biscuit.

“I miss Tim Tams,” you replied nodding. They were the best cookies, secondly only to Jaffa Cakes.

“Probably still works with these though. Same science.”

You and the girls watched Van confidently bite the tip of each side of the biscuit. He then used it as a straw for his tea. It took only a second for it to melt in his hands and fall straight into his tea, making a sickening sound as it hit the surface. Micah laughed at him, then Mary joined in because she always laughed when Micah did.

“Same science, huh?” you asked Van.

He just shrugged then downed the rest of the tea, cookie lumps and all.

“Alright,” Van said, leaning over to put his empty mug on the bedside table. “Time for presents, yeah?” he asked, looking at Micah.

“Yes!” she squealed, quickly sliding off the bed.

While she was out of the room, Van moved to sit next to you against the headboard. Mary crawled over your lap to be in Van’s. He bundled her up in his long arms and she wriggled against him, getting ready to sleep. You could see it on her face; she had one particular expression that always occurred at the onset of naps. Van had the exact same one.

Micah returned with two small gift bags and one wrapped present. She put them on the bed and climbed up after them. Nobody offered her help because they knew she’d decline offended. She set up the things in a line of three before pushing the wrapped box towards you.

“This one goes first because it’s the less important one,” she said.

You picked it up and looked at the little tag attached. It was from Van. You looked over at him. He was already looking at you like you were the camera and he was on The Office. Holding in sniggers, you ripped the paper off the present. It was clearly a jewellery box. Jewellery was a very Van thing to give someone. He understood the symbolism and weight a necklace or ring could hold. Silver and gold and all things shiny were one of his languages of love.

Inside the box was a locket on a long chain. The locket was engraved with Celtic patterns. When you opened it, each side had custom engraving. Micah’s name and birthday were on one, Mary’s on the other.

“Van…” you said but faltered when you didn’t really know what to say. You looked at him. He had his serious 'this means a lot to me and I need you to see that’ face on. Slowly, you let yourself fall into him a little bit, mindful not to crush Mary in the process. He kissed the top of your head. “Thank you,”

“You’re welcome, love. Happy Mother’s Day. You’re killin’ it,”

“Yeah?” you asked, sitting up. He nodded confidently. “Good. Okay…” Your voice trailed off as you looked at the locket again. Sliding it over your head, you let it hang around your neck. It would probably never come off again. “Thank you,” you said again. Van just nodded again. There was so much that you didn’t need to say to each other.

The bed started to shake a little then. Micah was getting impatient.

“Alright,” you said to her.

“Alright!” she echoed. “Now this one 'cause it’s the middle important one,” Micah said. The tag confirmed what you had hypothesised; it was from Mary. That essentially meant it was also from Van.

Inside the baby blue and pastel mint striped bag was a very fancy face mask set from your favourite spa. There was an envelope at the bottom of the bag too. You didn’t need to open it to know it was a gift card to the spa. A couple hours of massages and facials were going to be bliss. You smirked over at Van.

“Such a mature thing for Mary to pick out,” you said.

“Yeah. Hope she does as good on Father’s Day,” he replied, smirking right back at you.

“Thank you, Mary!” you said, turning to her and pushing her cheeks between your palms. Automatically, she puffed her cheeks out like Van always did. You kissed her nose and watched her giggle. She had no idea what was happening but she loved it.

“Now this is the most important one and this one is from me for you, Mummy, 'cause happy Mother’s Day from Micah,” Micah said as she pushed the final giftbag to you. She was bouncing on the spot. “I picked this one out at the shops myself,” she added, looking to Van for support of her fact.

“All by herself,” Van confirmed. She grinned.

Inside Micah’s gift bag, which was printed with a stock photo of kittens and puppies, was a carefully wrapped teacup and saucer set. The outside of the cup and top of the saucer were covered in a psychedelic cat print. Micah shuffled over and took the saucer from your hands.

“See, this one is you,” she said and pointed to a cat that looked like it had been on one too many acid trips. “And this one is Daddy.” Micah probably picked that one to be Van because it was simply the closest to your cat. Micah often teased Van about his need to be in the same room as you. “God, Daddy,” she’d say in her best grown-up voice. “Give it a rest!” Neither of you were sure where she’d learnt that phrase.

“Which one is you, Micah?” Van asked her in a voice that suggested the routine had been rehearsed.

“This one!” she said in an almost-scream. “This one is me, Mummy, because it’s got my favouritest colour on it. And then this one is Mary 'cause it’s the littlest,”

“That’s so clever, baby,” you told her, looking carefully at her selections. “This is the best cups I’ve ever seen. You reckon it’s too special to use though?” you asked purely to antagonise her.

Micah looked truly shocked. “No! You have to use it all the time!”

Van laughed, reminded of himself in her high pitched outraged tone.

“Yeah. Yeah, course I will! And every time I use it think of you!”

Once you’d looked at the cup and saucer for as long as you possibly could, you carefully gathered the gifts and put them in one of the gift bags. The other became a makeshift trash bag. Van put them on the floor, next to the bed.

“Did we do good?” Micah asked. She was crawling along the bed, then pushing her way under the covers between you and Van. When she was where she wanted to be, she rolled on her side to face Mary. Mary was asleep, and thankfully Micah let her remain that way. She still reached out to gently boop Mary’s nose though, then carefully move her soft hair out of her face.

“You always do good, baby. You all do,” you answered, watching her then glancing up at Van.

“Can we do a photo for it?” Micah asked. “Then a nap?”

“Yeah, course.”

Van carefully reached behind him to grab the nearest phone off the bedside table. Unlocked and camera rotated, his long arm was nearly as good as a selfie stick. Once he had Micah’s approval, he tossed the phone aside and settled down with sleeping Mary in his arms. Micah wrapped her arms around you and pressed her head against your chest, trying to hear your heartbeat. You’d be the last to fall asleep.

Van McCann knew what his future would look like from the get-go. He had it all planned out and had no reason to think it wouldn’t fall into place just like that. People laughed. His parents, his teachers, his friends. They suspected life would have a thing or two to say about such certain mapped plans, that it would have a curveball or three to push him off-course. You knew better though. You knew that somehow the curveballs were part of the plan. They were the very things that would help Van write the story that had existed in his mind from the start. You and Micah and Mary and Catfish and the studio and everything else were all so perfectly the things he dreamed of that sometimes you thought none of it would have existed without him. Maybe you and all of it were born of his thoughts and dreams and mind. Maybe not.

Most of the time you didn’t think too hard about how perfectly it had turned out to be. That seemed like a dangerous thing to do. Instead, you just appreciated what you had, and let the baby-scream, rainbow crayon filled days roll on into guitar melody, kissing filled nights. That seemed like the best thing to do.


End file.
